Sowmya Roy
Newbie
"in the hot humid climate of Westbengal, during july when there is more humidity and warmth in the air than love, i, a bengali housewife of 30 years, found myself craving something more than the sweetness of sandesh and the occasional company of my neighbors. my husband, a handsome man with eyes as vast as the sea he sailed, had been gone for almost eleven months now. he was a merchant navy officer, a title that filled my heart with a strange mix of pride and despair. pride because he braved the world’s oceans for a living, bringing home stories of distant lands and exotic goods. despair because i was left alone to navigate the vast, uncharted waters of my own desires.
my days were filled with the mundane: the sizzle of mustard oil in the kitchen, the rhythmic beating of dough into parathas, the gentle rocking of the swing outside our small, white-washed home, and the endless chatter of the neighborhood aunties. their whispers grew louder than the chirping of the cuckoo that heralded the monsoon. my nights, however, were a canvas of loneliness, painted with shades of longing for my husband’s touch, his voice, and the way he would hold me until the early hours of dawn.
it was on one such evening, when the rain had decided to take a break from its relentless siege, that i found myself in the quiet embrace of our marital bed. the room was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of the candle that had been my only companion since the power had gone out. the scent of rain-soaked earth mingled with the faint aroma of jasmine that lingered from my afternoon bath. i lay there, my skin sticking to the damp bedsheets, my body aching for the warmth that only a man could provide. my hand, seemingly of its own accord, began to trace the contours of my body, starting from my neck, down to my breasts, which were swollen with a need that only he knew how to quench.
my nipples grew taut under my touch, begging for the kiss of his lips, the bite of his teeth. my hand lingered there, playing with the sensitive buds, teasing them into hardened peaks. i moaned softly, the sound muffled by the pillow, my breathing growing heavier. my other hand traveled down my belly, my fingers tracing the lines of my stomach that had softened with the birth of our son, now a toddler sleeping soundly in his own little world.
my pussy was wet and throbbing, a silent testament to my need. i spread my legs, the fabric of my nightgown riding up to expose my nakedness to the warm, moist air. my fingers found my clit, the jewel of my desire, and began to circle it with gentle strokes, mimicking the way my husband would lick and nibble at it until i was a puddle of pleasure at his feet.
i grew bolder, my hand moving faster, the pressure increasing. i could almost feel his tongue on me, the way he would lick and suck until i was begging for his cock. my thoughts grew more and more sordid as i imagined his strong hands holding my hips down, his mouth feasting on my sex, my juices running down his chin. i moaned louder, the sound echoing in the silent room, a secret shared only with the walls that had seen the passionate love we once made.
my fingers slid lower, parting my swollen labia. i gasped as i felt the slickness of my arousal, my pussy begging for attention. i dipped one digit inside, feeling the warm embrace of my inner walls. it had been so long since i had felt this full, this alive. i pushed deeper, curling my finger in the way i knew would make him growl with lust. my hips began to rock, matching the rhythm of my hand.
my thoughts drifted to the last time we were together, his cock thick and hard, filling me up as he claimed me from behind, his hands gripping my waist, his teeth digging into my shoulder. i remembered the feel of him pumping into me, his balls slapping against my ass, his grunts of pleasure mixing with my cries of ecstasy. my hand grew more desperate, my finger moving in and out of my pussy with a ferocity that mirrored his own.
i reached for the jar of coconut oil on the bedside table, the same one i used for my morning ablutions. i coated my fingers in the warm, viscous fluid, the scent of it adding to the erotic haze that enveloped me. i slid two fingers inside, the sensation sending shockwaves through my body. i curled them upwards, searching for the spot that would bring me release.
my thumb found my clit again, and i began to rub it in tight circles, the pressure building, the tension coiling like a serpent in my belly. i could feel the beginnings of an orgasm, a distant storm threatening to break upon me. my hand moved faster, my hips bucking against my fingers, my breaths coming in gasps.
i imagined my husband’s hand, rough and calloused from his life at sea, taking over, his touch firm and sure. i pictured his cock, thick and veined, standing proud and demanding. i wished it was him inside me, stretching me, making me his once again.
i slammed my hand down, my fingers plunging into me, my thumb merciless on my clit. my toes curled, my body arched, and i screamed his name as i came, the orgasm ripping through me like a tidal wave, leaving me trembling and gasping for air. the sound of my release seemed to echo through the house, a declaration of my need, my desperation.
as the storm of pleasure subsided, i lay there, my body bathed in sweat and my heart racing. i felt a mix of satisfaction and guilt, a strange cocktail that only a woman in my position could understand. my hand remained between my legs, my fingers still coated in my juices, a silent reminder of the intimate dance i had just performed.
i knew that this act of self-love would not replace the warmth of his arms around me, the feel of his skin against mine, the taste of his kisses. but for now, it was enough to keep the beast of desire at bay, to remind me that i was still a woman, still capable of passion and lust, even in the face of my solitary existence.
the candle flickered, casting shadows that danced on the walls, and i allowed myself to drift into a restless sleep, my dreams filled with the promise of his return. i knew that the next day would be the same, the chores, the gossip, the endless waiting. but for this one night, in the quiet of my own bed, i had been the captain of my own ship, navigating the stormy waters of my sexuality with a determination that would have made him proud.
my days were filled with the mundane: the sizzle of mustard oil in the kitchen, the rhythmic beating of dough into parathas, the gentle rocking of the swing outside our small, white-washed home, and the endless chatter of the neighborhood aunties. their whispers grew louder than the chirping of the cuckoo that heralded the monsoon. my nights, however, were a canvas of loneliness, painted with shades of longing for my husband’s touch, his voice, and the way he would hold me until the early hours of dawn.
it was on one such evening, when the rain had decided to take a break from its relentless siege, that i found myself in the quiet embrace of our marital bed. the room was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of the candle that had been my only companion since the power had gone out. the scent of rain-soaked earth mingled with the faint aroma of jasmine that lingered from my afternoon bath. i lay there, my skin sticking to the damp bedsheets, my body aching for the warmth that only a man could provide. my hand, seemingly of its own accord, began to trace the contours of my body, starting from my neck, down to my breasts, which were swollen with a need that only he knew how to quench.
my nipples grew taut under my touch, begging for the kiss of his lips, the bite of his teeth. my hand lingered there, playing with the sensitive buds, teasing them into hardened peaks. i moaned softly, the sound muffled by the pillow, my breathing growing heavier. my other hand traveled down my belly, my fingers tracing the lines of my stomach that had softened with the birth of our son, now a toddler sleeping soundly in his own little world.
my pussy was wet and throbbing, a silent testament to my need. i spread my legs, the fabric of my nightgown riding up to expose my nakedness to the warm, moist air. my fingers found my clit, the jewel of my desire, and began to circle it with gentle strokes, mimicking the way my husband would lick and nibble at it until i was a puddle of pleasure at his feet.
i grew bolder, my hand moving faster, the pressure increasing. i could almost feel his tongue on me, the way he would lick and suck until i was begging for his cock. my thoughts grew more and more sordid as i imagined his strong hands holding my hips down, his mouth feasting on my sex, my juices running down his chin. i moaned louder, the sound echoing in the silent room, a secret shared only with the walls that had seen the passionate love we once made.
my fingers slid lower, parting my swollen labia. i gasped as i felt the slickness of my arousal, my pussy begging for attention. i dipped one digit inside, feeling the warm embrace of my inner walls. it had been so long since i had felt this full, this alive. i pushed deeper, curling my finger in the way i knew would make him growl with lust. my hips began to rock, matching the rhythm of my hand.
my thoughts drifted to the last time we were together, his cock thick and hard, filling me up as he claimed me from behind, his hands gripping my waist, his teeth digging into my shoulder. i remembered the feel of him pumping into me, his balls slapping against my ass, his grunts of pleasure mixing with my cries of ecstasy. my hand grew more desperate, my finger moving in and out of my pussy with a ferocity that mirrored his own.
i reached for the jar of coconut oil on the bedside table, the same one i used for my morning ablutions. i coated my fingers in the warm, viscous fluid, the scent of it adding to the erotic haze that enveloped me. i slid two fingers inside, the sensation sending shockwaves through my body. i curled them upwards, searching for the spot that would bring me release.
my thumb found my clit again, and i began to rub it in tight circles, the pressure building, the tension coiling like a serpent in my belly. i could feel the beginnings of an orgasm, a distant storm threatening to break upon me. my hand moved faster, my hips bucking against my fingers, my breaths coming in gasps.
i imagined my husband’s hand, rough and calloused from his life at sea, taking over, his touch firm and sure. i pictured his cock, thick and veined, standing proud and demanding. i wished it was him inside me, stretching me, making me his once again.
i slammed my hand down, my fingers plunging into me, my thumb merciless on my clit. my toes curled, my body arched, and i screamed his name as i came, the orgasm ripping through me like a tidal wave, leaving me trembling and gasping for air. the sound of my release seemed to echo through the house, a declaration of my need, my desperation.
as the storm of pleasure subsided, i lay there, my body bathed in sweat and my heart racing. i felt a mix of satisfaction and guilt, a strange cocktail that only a woman in my position could understand. my hand remained between my legs, my fingers still coated in my juices, a silent reminder of the intimate dance i had just performed.
i knew that this act of self-love would not replace the warmth of his arms around me, the feel of his skin against mine, the taste of his kisses. but for now, it was enough to keep the beast of desire at bay, to remind me that i was still a woman, still capable of passion and lust, even in the face of my solitary existence.
the candle flickered, casting shadows that danced on the walls, and i allowed myself to drift into a restless sleep, my dreams filled with the promise of his return. i knew that the next day would be the same, the chores, the gossip, the endless waiting. but for this one night, in the quiet of my own bed, i had been the captain of my own ship, navigating the stormy waters of my sexuality with a determination that would have made him proud.
